


Warship My Wreck

by rainbowdracula



Series: Anima [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7084369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowdracula/pseuds/rainbowdracula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's mark was written in raised Braille. Matt kept his hidden beneath his watch.</p><p>A love story in five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ligo

**Author's Note:**

> Commission written for infinity77.
> 
> Title from "Warship My Wreck," by Marilyn Manson.

Peter was born Marked, blessed.

There, on his little wrist, two dots and an empty line and then a solitary one on the left, black and raised. Braille, said the doctors. Peter's soulmate was blind, had been at the moment of Peter's birth.

In dreams, Peter saw red fire and murky depths, half-remembered snatches of image and the cadence of city noise, city smells, city air brushing against his oversensitive skin. Peter wondered if his soulmate dreamed in vision, dripping with color and devoid of other senses. What would it be like, to be devoid of something he took for granted?

 

-

 

New York was burning.

Great pillars of fire and billowing smoke up into the navy sky, screaming voices like a dirge. Something...someone...great and terrible and definitely an Avengers' Problem was cackling at the wreckage, as Spider-Man scrambled in the wreckage.

His webs spun out, silvery in the twilight half-light, to catch crumbling debris as he herded out the trembling survivors. The buildings groaned under their own weight, and Peter's felt the shocks down to the bedrock. His feet were swift, but he felt the ache of exhaustion thrumming up the muscles of his legs.

A metallic screech. Peter spun around, and there was the Avengers' Problem's strange biological robot. A behemoth, with a maw full of sharp teeth and far too many eyes on places that should not have eyes. Peter slid his foot back, brain making frantic calculations to where he needed to shoot his web, until something red landed on the back of the behemoth and sparks flew from its mouth.

There, Daredevil on its back and the moon on his shoulders, hand dug into its neck. He ripped his hand out, alongside sparking electronics and weird robot blood. The behemoth fell down and Daredevil rode it down like a horse before gracefully flipping off.

He was tall, bigger than skinny Peter, and his mouth was a hard line. The eyes of his mask were just red plastic, and Peter wondered how he saw through them.

"The weak point is the back of the neck," Daredevil said in a reasonable tone of voice, like this was a reasonable sentence and a reasonable situation. Then, "Fuck the Avengers."

Peter made a noise of agreement. "Thanks, man."

"The civilians," Daredevil intoned, and flipped off to punch more in the back of the neck. It was strange to see him not silhouetted by shadows and guarding Hell's Kitchen like a junkyard dog, Peter thought. He certainly seems less...crazy. For a vigilante. Some of Peter's usuals refuse to go within a block of the Kitchen proper, because Daredevil was 'psychotic.'

Peter was an aching mess by the time he crawled through the window of his place. He stripped off the grimy uniform and crawled under his sheets, postponing the shower until tomorrow. He reached over to turn off his lamp, when the familiar mark on his wrist caught his attention.

After the dots that formed the M, six more little patterns of dots; M-A-T-T-H-E-W, his tired brain scoured. He must've run into his soulmate, Peter realized, during the fight, and desperately raked his memory for a blind man amongst the civilians.

Sleep escaped him.

 

-

 

There was beauty in the bond, the Church upon the Rock said. He split our souls in two and we spend our lives searching for the other half.

The P upon his wrist was always a distant thing to Matthew. The texture of the skin was different when he rasped his thumb against it. He kept it covered by his watch – there was always something more to be done. School, Stick, the mission. The P was unchanging, distant, out-of-mind.

The morning after the behemoths and the Avengers' Problem, Matt grabbed his watch off the top of his dresser and moved to put it on, the back of his knuckles brushing against his wrist. He paused, watch clattering down to the dresser, and put his thumb fully on the skin of his wrist.

The P, yes, then more. His soulmate, one of the many amongst the fire.

"Peter," Foggy had told him. "P-E-T-E-R. I wonder what his mark looks like."

It would be in Braille, Matt thought. Sometimes it was difficult to imagine the Latin script in his mind, associating the sounds with the shapes instead of the bumps beneath his fingers. His brain could cobble together the impression of objects, their burning silhouettes made of bouncing sound, but in dreams Matt saw once again, distorted and stretched by his soulmate's perception.

Skyscrapers that pierced into the heavens, the dark streets far down below and teeming with crushing life. A sky so wide and blue he fell into it, and then being caught by something unseen. Terror and delight, wrapped tight by web and suspended.

What did his soulmate dream of now? Of the dark recesses of the Kitchen mapped out in sound and smell and rasping fingers against the walls? The familiar and ancient words of Mass, the Blood and the Body on his tongue? Pain, bright and burning and red?

Matt put his watch back over the name.


	2. invenio

Hell's Kitchen teemed with life. Even after the Chitauri rained hellfire down upon it, the people endured and rebuilt. Peter aimed his camera at a building covered with skeletal scaffolding and took a picture of the rebuilding, the autumnal sun bright in the background and fucking with his exposure. He frowned and wondered if he'd ever finish his assignment for Digital Photography; what was supposed to be an easy elective beside all his Bio and Chem classes was proving harder than expected.

"Document the rebuilding effort," his professor had said. Peter huffed, letting his camera fall back against his chest. The Invasion was still a great scar across Manhattan, no matter how much Stark Tower (or Avengers' Tower now) gleamed in the sun. People were hurt and suspicious. The world seemed so much graver than before, apocalypse always a moment away.

He turned so the sun was on his back, the shadows of the crowd blending together. Ever since his mark blossomed, everything seemed sharper and starker – the shadows upon the walls, the bright sun, vivid bleeding color. His dreams were dark, shapes illuminated in harsh sounds and burning fire. Sometimes he'd hear something from several blocks away and react instinctively –his lab accident sharpened his senses and reflexes, but not like that.

The crisp air of the day made Peter shiver, and he tightened his hoodie around himself. The people around him became a blur of faces, eyes unable to pick out a unique feature, and the sound a rush that went past him. Peter's feet moved without his intervention, pulled by the gravity of Hell's Kitchen. Idly, he wondered if the Devil was amongst the masses, surveying his protectorate in plain clothes and passing him without second thought.

_Tap, tap, tap._

The sound was as clear as a bell in Peter's ear, and without thought he turned to find it. It seemed to match the rhythm of his heart, a constant pattern drummed into the sidewalk. Amongst the faceless crowd, a single man stood out – hair streaked with red in the sun, a long white cane sweeping in front of him. A stranger, yet the movement of his body was as familiar as his own.

The man moved down the street, face impassive and concentrated, opposite Peter. Without thinking, Peter reached out and grabbed the sleeve of the man's suit, breathing out, "Matthew?"

The man froze in place, cane clutched to his chest. His breath hitched as he replied, "Peter?"

 

-

 

Matt felt the bumps of his name rising from Peter's soft skin, the flutter of his heart, and kissed his wrist gently. Peter exhaled, body warm where it pressed against Matt's side, and nuzzled his face into the crook of Matt's neck.

They sat on Matt's bed, barefoot and shirtless. Matt's hands spanned the length of Peter's ribcage, the bumps of Peter's mark rubbing against the shoulder Peter clutched. The city outside was quiet and distant, the rumbling noise quieted by Peter's breath and blood.

"I thought," Matt began, swallowed. Started again. "I thought I'd never meet you."

"We were in the same city the whole time," Peter laughed, resting his forehead against Matt's. "All that time and we didn't pass each other once."

"Well, you were in Queens," Matt said, resting his hands on Peter's face. He traced the outline of it, youthful and free, and let his thumbs linger on Peter's bottom lip. He felt the sides of Peter's eyelashes brush against his fingers as Peter looked down. "You're beautiful."

"You can't even see my face," Peter said flatly. Matt smiled, kissing his nose. He gently squeezed Peter's ribs, and Peter hissed softly. Matt frowned.

"I tripped," Peter said, heart shuddering over the lie. "Hurt my ribs."

Matt stroked down to Peter's hips and pulled him close, tight to his body. Was someone harming Peter? Terrifying him into silence and compliance?

 _No longer,_ Matt thought, deep and dark. He smoothed his hand down Peter's back, inhaling the scent of him, and sighed. Peter sighed, warm and soft and relaxed in Matt's arms. There was a thrumming deep under Matt's skin that he never recognized before. Their hearts moved in synch. Half of his soul, nestled safely in his lap.

Outside, darkness settled on the Kitchen, lurking and circling around him.

 

 

On Aunt May's wrist was BENJAMIN, and the letters looked like they had been doused with water, bleeding black down the length of her pale arm. She wore long sleeves now, unwilling to endure the pitying looks of grocery store clerks and passers-by. It was with trepidation that Peter sat with her in her little kitchen, the dying light of day pouring through the windows and casting strange shadows on the wall. Peter rolled up his sleeve and showed her the raised bumps.

"His name is Matthew," Peter explained. "He lives in Hell's Kitchen, and is a defense attorney. Helps the helpless. He was one of the people who helped bring down that Fisk guy."

"A good man," May said quietly, tracing the letters. She raised her hand to Peter's cheek. "That's all I ever wanted for you. A good person."

"He is, he really wants to meet you," Peter said. Quiet for a moment. "He doesn't have much in the way of family."

May smiled, a little sad. "Well, he's got you now. And me."

 

-

 

"He's a twink," Foggy moaned as he Facebook stalked Peter. "Doe-eyed skinny little twink."

Matt made a humming noise, as he slowly packed up his things to leave the office. "He's much stronger than he looks. He does yoga. Very flexible."

There was a rush of air that always indicated he just got flipped off.

"He's majoring in Biochemistry and likes every news article about Stark Industries," Foggy continued. "Very wholesome pictures of him with other young people not yet crush by student loans and Capitalism. This kid must have a dark secret, right?"

Matt thought of bruises, the bones shifting strangely under Peter's skin, and felt a rumbling rage deep within his chest. "Probably. Don't we all?"

"Are you going to tell him yours?"

The office was plunged into quiet. Karen had gone home for the night. The street outside was noisy with honking cars.

"I..." Matt began.

"The kid's obviously not stupid, Matt," Foggy said. "Eventually the soul-bond hormones are going to wear off and he's going to see the scars. Like the huge one, on your torso, which presumably he can't take his eyes off because damn."

"Marci wouldn't like you saying that," Matt said, in lieu of everything else.

"Marci can see, Matt. She understands."

Matt was quiet, thoughts swirling as he tried to gather them into place. "I don't...you know how Daredevil is presented in media. Stark calls me a 'lone alpha wolf who pissed around mid-Manhattan' whenever we meet."

"You don't want the kid realizing you're a crazy person," Foggy said. "He's going to love you no matter what. Even with your...thing."

Matt hunched a bit, defensive. "I just...he's a good person, Foggy. Far better than me. I want him to feel normal before I reveal..."

"You are the opposite of a normal human being?" Foggy asked. "You keep so much bottled up it's a wonder you don't explode, Broody McAngst."

Foggy inhaled, and then did that chuckle thing he did when he had a good jab against Matt. "Maybe he's into the whole angry man in leather thing. He is _your_ soulmate, after all."

"Foggy, please."


	3. inflammo

The sign outside Matt's window spilled strange colors into his living room, swirling neon dancing across his pale skin as he stood next to it. His shirt was unbuttoned, and the nasty scar that zagged up his torso was sharp and shocking. Peter crossed the living room floor and into Matt's opened arms, hand sliding up the length of the scar.

Matt caught it in his own and kissed Peter's palm, other hand slipping underneath Peter's shirt. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, face almost painful in its openness. Peter twined himself around Matt, neon spilling over their skin, and Matt kissed him, soft, on the lips.

The kiss quickly deepened, a heated thing that made Peter's head swim as Matt reached up to cradle his face. Peter clutched at Matt's thick forearms for support, swooning into the force of his embrace.

"Beloved," Matt murmured, breathless and adoring. Peter smiled, laughed. Matt slid his hands under Peter's clothes and took his shirt off, the contact of bare skin against bare skin electric. Peter pressed his lips to the underside of Matt's jaw, breath soft.

"Please," Peter begged. Matt crushed him close, hands squeezing his ass, and Peter wrapped his legs around Matt's waist, arms tightening around his neck. Matt lifted him without problem, and carried him off into the bedroom.

Peter moaned as he spilled across Matt's ludicrous silk sheets, Matt climbing on top of him and capturing his mouth once more. Peter's fingers trailed down Matt's chest, past the scars, and fumbled with Matt's pants. Matt bit and sucked at Peter's long neck, and Peter tilted his head back, squirming and trembling. Finally, Peter had Matt's pants undone and was urgently trying to get them down.

Matt laughed at Peter's eagerness, leaning back to take off both his and Peter's pants. Peter ran his hands up Matt's chest, over the scars that laced across his skin. Matt kissed down the length of Peter's body, and Peter moaned as Matt sucked on his nipples, flush trailing down his chest.

"Matt," Peter groaned, legs tightening around him. Matt finally let up, kissing down the flat and muscular planes of Peter's stomach. He couldn't help but blow a raspberry on to Peter's stomach, and Peter broke out into helpless giggles, foot pushing on Matt's shoulders.

"Chop chop," he demanded, and Matt smiled before taking Peter's cock into his mouth. Peter's giggles turned into moans as Matt sucked, his head tossing back and fists clenched in the luxurious sheets. His thighs tightened around Matt's head, teeth biting down on his bottom lip as Matt used his tongue and mouth to drive him out of his mind.

Peter's back bent off the bed when Matt's lubed fingers rubbed circles around his entrance, one teasing itself inside. Matt let off Peter's cock, kissing the pale insides of his thighs as Peter relaxed, chest stopping its heaving.

"Sh," Matt soothed. "You're so beautiful."          

With shaky hands, Peter tugged Matt up into a kiss. His legs slipped down to Matt's broad shoulders, bending him in half as Matt went up to kiss Peter's bitten mouth. Matt resumed his ministrations, sliding in another finger deeper, crooking it until Peter cried out again.

"Matt..." Peter said, body shaking. "Matt, please..."

"Yeah," Matt said. He removed his fingers, and shakily rolled on a condom. "Of course, Peter, you're perfect..."

Slowly, he pushed his cock into Peter; Peter's mouth opened in an O, legs tightening around Matt's neck. Matt breathed, slow and deep, willing himself to slow down and enjoy the tight, hot heat of Peter around him. Peter whimpered, fingers tightening on Matt's shoulders, and Matt moved in slow increments, pressing his forehead down on to Peter's.

Sensation was bleeding in, heightening and dazzling. Black crept in to the edges of Peter's vision, Matt's face blurring out of focus as he moved, but it was replaced by the sensation of silk caressing him like a thousand hands, the rich smell of Matt's sweat and soap, Matt's panting breath in his ears. He felt like he was bleeding into Matt and Matt was bleeding into him, and he felt glittering tears on his face.

 

"Peter, I..." Matt breathed. "I can...God, I love you."

Peter's hand – the one bearing Matthew's name – reached out and grasped its twin on Matt's wrist, and he felt warm, cushioned in the cage of Matt's powerful arms. Everything that had happened in the last five years – Spider-Man, Gwen, Uncle Ben, Harry – melted away, as Matt kissed his face and murmured in disbelief about his brown hair, his red cheeks.

"Please," Peter breathed, falling into a world of sensation. The sheets cocooned him, the city noise of cars and crowds rose from behind the tall windows, even the hum of the billboard outside. It magnified the sensation of Matt's hips driving into him, the rich masculine smell of him tinged with copper and smoke, his teeth sinking into the pale skin of Peter's neck. "Oh, Matthew, please..."

Matt growled, deep in his chest, and drove his hips deeper, holding Peter close enough to crush. Peter moaned, low and long, as Matt groaned, Peter's cock rubbing against Matt's stomach. Matt placed his mouth right next to Peter's ear, words slurred like he was drunk, "Love you, anything you want..."

The words barely make it past Peter's lips, but Matt heard them deep in his bones.

"Love you too, oh please..." Peter said, and he came like a lightning strike, so fierce and intense it shuddered through Matt and they were falling into the blue, together, shuddering and crying until it all returned to black.

Matt came to first, to sound and touch but not the strange half-visions his brain barely understood. Peter was still coming down in his arms, and Matt extracted himself carefully, taking off the condom and throwing it in the bin by his bed. He returned to Peter, laying out on his back to tug Peter on to his chest and sooth him some, rubbing the length of his back. His fingers tripped over scars, some far too large to be accidents, and frowned deeper. The question of who hurt Peter circled darkly in his mind, and so did the question of Daredevil.

Peter whimpered, nuzzling Matt's jaw, and Matt pushed the dark thoughts away.

"How are you?" Matt asked, voice rough. The neighbors must hate them.

"Good," Peter said. "Thirsty. Kind of gross."

Matt laughed, swinging his legs out of bed to get a glass of water and a towel. They split the water, and Matt cleaned them up some. Peter wrestled him back down to cuddle immediately afterwards, sighing in contentment at the skin-to-skin contact. His lithe hands trailed across Matt's chest, once more lingering at the scar twisted across his torso.

"Will you ever tell me where it came from?" Peter asked quietly. Matt was silent for a long moment.

"I was not as careful as I should've been," Matt said firmly. "Would you tell me where yours came from?"

Quiet, Peter's hummingbird heart, his breathing.

"The same," Peter replied, words ghosts in the night.

 


	4. superfundo

Hot, humid rain fell down on the Kitchen in buckets, slicking the streets and making oil rise up to the surface. The garbage smells rose in a thick cloud. The rain drowned out many noises, banging against metal water towers and roofs in a maddening drum. Daredevil stood on the corner of a building, partially shielded by the roof entrance overhang, and wondered if it was time to slip away for the night. Not even the lowest of the sewer rat drug dealers dared walk in the deluge drowning the whole city.

Daredevil stretched out the powerful line of his shoulders, mapping out his route home in the rain, when he hears it.

The strange thrum of rope, jetting out with a mechanical click and pulling taunt. Feet thumping against the rooftop, coming to a halt with a stutter.

"Daredevil! Sorry, I was just passing—"

A hummingbird heartbeat, the smell of Matt's sheets, laughter in his voice. Matt's breath caught.

"Right," Daredevil growled. "I suggest you keep moving."

The irony, he thought, great cosmic joke. They were meant for each other, cleaved in half at the beginning of time, and came to the same conclusions.

"Sorry, Daredevil," Spider-Man – _Peter_ – said, not recognizing the figure under the mask and horns. "I was just—"

" _Out,_ " Daredevil commanded. Peter muttered under his breath about crazy men, and swung off, skinny body suspended only by a thin line of webbing. Matt's heart thudded as he thought about that, racing towards his own apartment. Peter probably wanted to check in on him, expected him wrapped tight in his bed and far away from the rain and the oil-slick streets.

Matt spilled into his apartment, boots heavy on the stairs, and stripped off Daredevil. He was cold, wet, and tired, a bone deep ache that radiated out from his wrist. One soul, split between two bodies, bound together until death when two became one again. His other half, swinging through the uncaring night.

He crawled into his bed, silk sheets still smelling of Peter, and let out a sob. Peter was young. Peter was far away from this business. Peter had a brilliant and unencumbered life ahead of him. Peter was Spider-Man. Peter was like him, weighed down by a city on his back.

Peter was knocking on Matt's door.

He let himself have a few more moments of quiet before Matt came out of bed, feeling his way to the door. Peter shifted sheepishly when he opened it, and when Matt touched his shoulder Peter was sopping wet.

"You're going to catch a cold," Matt scolded automatically, shepherding Peter inside. Peter laughed, stripping off his wet clothes right in the living room. He'd be illuminated by the neon billboard, Matt thought, naked and thin.

"Sorry for dropping in," Peter said. "But the storm...rattled me, I guess. I wanted to see you."

"You can always come see me, Peter," Matt said, pulling him close. Peter's skin was chilled, and he latched on to Matt for warmth.

"You're like a space heater," Peter mumbled, and Matt pulled him down underneath the covers. Here, the sounds of the world seemed muffled and far away, while Peter's heartbeat was right there, a drum in his ears. It slowed as he relaxed, matching Matt's low, deep rhythm. Matt pulled the blanket over their heads, like schoolchildren hiding from monsters during a sleepover.

Was there a fresh bruise on Peter's skin, from a common mugger or those new, crazed threats? Did he ache from being thrown into car doors and swinging through the sky? The Spider-Man outfit was nothing more than thin Spandex, from what he heard. Perhaps Melvin...

"Matt?" Peter whispered.

"Yeah?"

"You seem distracted."

Matt reached out to touch Peter's face, wonder at what he saw when Peter looked at him.

"I'm sorry," Matt said. "I've got a lot on my mind."

Peter gripped his hand, thumb trailing over his wrist – the marked one. Warm sparks of contentment and anxiety shoot through him.

"Always thinking," Peter chided, and then grew serious. "I wanted..."

His heart quickened.

"Wanted what, Peter?" Matt asked. Almost demanded. Here, beneath the covers, wanted nothing but honesty.

"I wanted to tell you how much I love you," Peter said. Not a lie, but not what he meant to say. "I missed you. I miss you when we're apart."

"I miss you, too," Matt said, and bridged the gap to kiss him. "I love you."

The rain beat against his windows, a typhoon demanding entrance, and they ignored it, for a little while longer.

 

-

 

Matt's patchwork scars haunted Peter's thoughts, sometimes.

He'll be sitting in class, drawing out diagrams of alcohols that suddenly started twisting out like the scar on Matt's torso, or slashing down like the ones on his arms. His scarred knuckles clenching on his kitchen counter. His rough, sardonic laugh. A world expecting him to move on from alleyways and gunshots. _Not careful._

Peter wasn't careful, either.

All around him, college students walked to class with bright laughter in their voices, businessmen yelled into their phones, the teeming masses of New York City moving under a bright blue sky. Peter slipped through the crowds, shoulders hunched, and rubbed the skin of his wrist, the ridges there. Thought about Matthew's even-keeled voice, the fire, the creatures, and the chaos. Fearsome Daredevil's love of one simple neighborhood in Manhattan, where Matt had lived for his whole life.

Peter suppressed down a laugh. Two halves of the same soul indeed.

Night fell, dark and humid, and he swung his line into Midtown, into the dark alleys of the Hell's Kitchen. In the shadows would lurk red.

Peter landed on the roof with a thud, knowing that the Devil would not be far behind. So perceptive, his Matthew – Peter thought of the way his senses would expand out, sounds forming patterns in his mind. Matthew lost his sight in an accident, but gained something else, and would find him every time.

Matt landed with a thud on the roof and a growl in his voice.

"I've told you, Spider-Man," he said. "Hell's Kitchen is not for you."

Peter's mouth was dry as he struggled for words. Daredevil stalked closer, impatient and agitated, and said once more, "What do you want—"

"Matthew."

Daredevil froze, powerful body strung tight like a bowstring, and then deflated all at once.

"I'm sorry," he said, soft and even. Matt's voice. "I was going to tell you, but I didn't know how."

"You knew?" Peter asked.

"Yes, your heartbeat..." Matt said, then sighed. "I wished that we could be normal. For a little while."

He shifted closer. Peter walked up to meet him, a single step between them.

"I wasn't exactly honest either," Peter pointed out. "If anything, it just solidifies the fact were meant to be together. Who else is going to understand besides a fellow masked vigilante?"

Matt laughed and hugged him; his costume was lined with thick armor, a far cry from Peter's Spandex. Besides his heightened senses, Matt was unenhanced. Peter tightened his grip, face pressed into Matt's chest.

"Aunt May wants to invite you over for dinner," Peter said, a bit muffled. Matt snorted, squeezing Peter tighter. The night was dark and quiet.

"She does?" he asked. "Is she going to ask after my intentions?"

"Probably," Peter replied. Matt grinned, boyish and happy.


	5. diligo

The humidity of the dying summer was being overrun by the crisp hints of autumn. Even now, the odd leaf would crunch under Matthew's foot. The Queens' neighborhood Peter grew up in had streets lined with trees, no doubt slowly turning red as the sun vanished beneath the horizon. Matt wore his best sweater and carried a bottle of wine.

Peter bounded down the steps of Aunt May's porch, and Matt hugged him to his side, kissing his cheek. Peter's smile spread wide under his lips.

"Good evening, Peter," Matt said.

"Hi," Peter replied, a bit breathless. "Aunt May made spaghetti, come on."

Peter led Matt up to the house, where the smells of tomatoes and garlic were heavy and familiar. Gentle footsteps on the floor, and Peter's happy, "Matt, this is my Aunt May. Aunt May, this is Matt."

"Aren't you handsome," May said. "Nice to finally meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too, Mrs. Parker," Matt said with a smile. May laughed.

"Please just call me May, you charmer," she said. "Dinner will be ready shortly, so you can just sit down at the table."

Peter sat down next to Matt, covering Matt's hand with his own and making an excited little noise.

"After this, I got to introduce you to MJ," Peter said. "She wants to meet you, too."

“I’ve got an office full of people who want to meet you,” Matt replied. “Especially Foggy. He doesn’t trust your intentions at all.”

“They are quite lecherous, let me assure you.”

May came in with the spaghetti, humming quietly to herself. She insisted that Matt get served first, despite his protests, and Matt knew she was watching him intently for his reaction. It was quite good, the sauce homemade with the perfect amount of spice for Matt’s sensitive palate, and he told her so.

“Well, that’s good,” she said, pleased. “Didn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me right away.”

“Shouldn’t I be more worried about your reaction to me?” Matt asked.

“Oh, I know you’ll treat my Peter right,” she said. “He spends every visit here raving about you, you know. Always on about how you help the helpless, defeating the vicious evils of Corporate America with the law and a smile…”

“Aunt May!” Peter hissed, embarrassed.

“To be fair,” Matt said. “I have a lot of help.”

He reached over and squeeze Peter’s hand under the table, just once. Peter squeezed back.

 

-

 

Winter came with a thick white quilt, covering the city and making it quieter, softer. Spider-Man’s feet left light tracks in the snow, quickly filled in by the falling flurries; behind him walked Matt, his steps sinking firmly to the ground.

Beyond the rooftop, Peter could see the Avengers Tower jetting into the pitch black sky, bright orange flames, and rapidly moving figures. Matt tilted his head.

“Robots,” he said. “Again.”

Peter considered, and then shrugged.

“Avengers' problem,” he declared, and tugged Matt off in the opposite direction.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://rainbowdracula.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Commission information.](http://rainbowdracula.tumblr.com/post/121606093217/writing-commissions)


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